Flattery
by HedwigBlack
Summary: Gilderoy Lockhart has a juicy story for Rita Skeeter. Or so she thinks...


**For the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp Challenge**

**Prompt: macaw**

* * *

Rita Skeeter tapped her foot impatiently as she sat outside Florean Fortescue's shop in Diagon Alley. The man was fifteen minutes late and she hated to be kept waiting. She had other appointments after all, and he hadn't given her many details about the story he supposedly had. Why he bothered giving it to her, she had no idea, seeing as he was an accomplished writer himself, or so he'd boasted quite extravagantly in the last letter he'd sent her just yesterday.

She took a long sip of her iced tea and reached for her crocodile-skin purse, deciding that she'd been stood up, when the person whom she'd been waiting for came into her line of vision. He was tall and much better looking than she'd given him credit for now that she was seeing him in person. However, all of that was overshadowed by his robes which billowed around him like a sea of primary colors, making him look like a macaw...or a clown…

He did not seem to notice how his mode of dress offended her and bowed low, kissing her hand gallantly.

"Ms. Skeeter, it is wonderful to meet you! I am quite the fan!"

Rita grinned smugly and pulled out a pad of paper and her acid green Quick-Quotes-Quill. She ran a manicured hand through her curly hair before settling back in her chair. "Why, thank you, Mr. Lockhart. You have a story for me, you say?"

"Ah, yes, right down to business. I like that," he said leaning forward and showing off the most brilliant set of pearly whites she'd ever seen.

She felt a blush rise to her cheeks and continued, "I'm surprised you've come to me, Mr. Lockhart. I'm sure you are quite capable of writing the story yourself if half of what you told me is true."

"But, of course, madam!" he exclaimed emphatically. "However, this bit of information would be best presented to the public through the _Prophet_…" He reached over and picked up the acid green quill and inspected it nonchalantly. "And you are the most talented journalist I've had the pleasure of reading." He flashed another brilliant smile that nearly undid her, as much as she hated to admit it to herself. He certainly was a master of flattery.

She cleared her throat. "And what is this story about?"

He leaned his head on his elbow and continued to stroke the quill absentmindedly, while gazing at her in puppy dog-like adoration. "Oh, it's about a certain Minister of Magic… an inter-department affair of sorts…quite a juicy story it is and…" he gasped dramatically. "You know, this is a much bigger story than I can tell you in a short interview like this. I'm surprised at myself for not having thought of it. This is a discussion to have over dinner!"

"Dinner?" Rita repeated.

"Of course! Are you busy tonight? What am I saying, a pretty thing like you must be engaged for tonight! Tomorrow night, then. We shall have a glorious dinner and we can discuss Fudge's lack of ethical principles." He held out a hand and pulled her up out of her chair, his blue eyes boring into hers. "What do you say?"

Her earlier annoyance had long disappeared, under the influence of his charm, and Rita readily agreed. How could she refuse? He bent down and kissed her hand once more before waving and striding down the busy street, out of sight.

He smirked as he ran the acid green Quick-Quotes-Quill through his fingers and then Disapparated before she realized it was missing and came after him. The next day, Rita waited for fifteen minutes after the time he had told her to meet him at the restaurant. At first, she thought that being fashionably late was an endearing quirk. When, after another fifteen minutes had gone by, she realized that she'd been stood up. And when six months later, Gilderoy Lockhart's face could be seen smiling broadly from not one but _two_ autobiographies in the window of Flourish and Blott's and besotted middle-aged women like Mrs. Weasley lined up claiming that he must be very clever to have written all that so quickly, Rita Skeeter knew better.

One day, she would have her revenge, she thought as she scribbled another piece about the Boy Who Lived. It was just a matter of time.


End file.
